The Darker Side of Everyone
by BRWroses
Summary: While every nation has its good side, it also has its darker side, the one that always hounds them until they give in to it. Sometimes this side is stronger in others. Sometimes, this side is hardly noticeable. Fail summary is fail. Read please?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****: **Hetalia doesn't belong to me. And it never will...unless I win the lottery!

**Warnings: **Bad Grammar (Maybe), uh...it might get bloody later on, but there's some pretty depressing themes in this chapter. Oh and some OOCness

Rated T cause I don't think it's safe for little five year olds to read about demons and the Russian Revolution.

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><p><em>1917<em>

A young man was laying on the ground, a light dusting of snow already settling over his body. The piercing green eyes stared into the sky, watching the snowflakes flutter down calmly. The grey sky rumbled with a hint of thunder, threatening a heavier fall.

It as so quiet. So peaceful.

It was the way it should have been in the winter. A small snowstorm, and then the small trek back to his house.

He couldn't believe that the world could ever be this quiet after what had happened.

Slowly sitting up, his frozen limbs moved stiffly, trying to throw off the cold. His lips were, no doubt, blue from lying in the snow for so long. He felt like his flesh was frozen in place, and if had been a normal human lying here, they would have been dead by now.

He looked over the large plain with trees doting the scene occasionally, covered with at least a foot of snow. A numb hand rose to his arm, trying to rub off the bloody frost that was starting to grow on him.

The ice cracked and fell onto the bright red snow, blending in. More snowflakes fell, each one covering the battleground, hiding the bleeding corpses that numbered in the hundreds of thousands.

_The bloody screams . . ._

The boy's blank eyes took in the miles of bloody snow without a flinch. He had far move past even reacting at the sight of blood. For him, it was a common sight.

_The sounds of the gun firing . . ._

He wanted to stand up and go home, curl up in front of the fireplace and perhaps thaw out. But he couldn't. He didn't even have the strength to continue sitting. He flopped back down, resuming watching the sky jadedly.

_The bright splashes of blood that decorated the snow . . ._

He was under a tree with frozen branches. The twigs looked like they had been flashed frozen. He raised her hand, reaching for the frozen tree, only for his arm to be dragged down by an unknown force.

_You can remember it, can't you? The _wonderful _sounds of the dying!_

"Please . . . go away," he whispered, the words barely making it out of his mouth. It felt like an invisible hand was trying to shove his mouth close. He struggle for a little while before it gave up and allowed him to speak normally.

_Oh, but that's no fun, huh Arthur? _The dark voice had a sullen undertone to it, like it was sulking because it gave up control._ You must admit, this one was one of the best. All that blood spilling, the screams of the dead and dying. War is such an amazing thing, no?_

"Go away." Arthur curled up, scowling into the snow. "I don't need you."

_It's not any fun if I don't bother you! It's bad enough that I'm stuck with an ex-pirate who has gone soft! I would much rather have that Russian as a host. He's already insane, which makes it all the more fun! _

Arthur growled and looked around, his eyes flickering around the snowy wasteland. "What do you want? There has to be some reason why you're haunting me."

_Don't you know? And I thought that the Brits were good at magic. I was sadly mistaken. _He could hear the soft laugh in his head, the demon leering at him through his mind eye_. Ask any nation! They all know!" _

Arthur let out an irritable snarl and sat up, ignoring his body's protests. "If you don't mind, I will be heading home now. I have no interest in watching anymore of the Russian Revolution."

He was about to stand up when the crunch of snow alerted him to movement. He turned his head to see a rather large Russian man making his way towards him. For a moment, he thought it was the nation himself, but it was really just a citizen, probably looting the bodies of the dead. Or maybe it was a soldier, here to find someone's dead body, but he doubted it.

"Кто вы?" He looked blankly at the man, not understanding Russian. He never bothered to learn French, even with that perverted wanker as his neighbor all those years, why should he know Russian? That man was more than a tad bit insane.

Arthur snorted and picked himself up, dusting the snow off of him. "I don't know what you are saying, git."

The man swung a machine gun forward, aiming at him. "остановить! Я буду стрелять!" Just by his expression, Arthur could tell what he was saying. _Stop! I'll shoot!_

Arthur chuckled a bit before turning around. "Lad, you don't know whom you're dealing with."

He started to walk away, each crunch of the snow echoingly loud, taunting the man into opening fire.

_One step._

He could almost hear the man hesitating to kill the strange man. Maybe he thought Arthur was a fairy or some Russian fairytale creature.

_Two steps._

He could hear the demon cooing in his mind, and he knew that it was almost springing in anticipation of a little action.

_Three steps._

He could hear the multiple bangs of the gun. A few missed completely, slamming into the snow and kicking up a cloud of ice and snowflakes, which completely shrouded Arthur from view.

The Russian man shot seven times before he ran out of bullets. Cursing and fumbling with the gun, he began to reload, just in case the strange man was still alive. Although he was a poor shot, even he couldn't shoot a man six feet away seven times and miss all seven times.

_Oh dear._

The man froze at the voice, the gun slipping from his fingers and falling into the snow. It a cheerful voice, with a snide undertone to it. Although it wasn't speaking in Russian, he could understand it just fine.

_This simply will not do. After all, I can't have my host dying on me, can't I? Although it would mean being reassigned, it's just plain rude to give up without a struggle, even with someone as pitiful as Arthur here._

The cloud died down to reveal the Englishman standing there haughtily, drawing himself upwards to seem even taller. There wasn't a single scratch on him, his sweater and jeans virtually untouched. His lips curled upwards into a leering grin, his eyes glinting with malice.

"You are quite the lucky one that I'm in a good mood today," he said, his usual British accent contaminated with a dark undertone. "If anyone fired a gun at me, they usually would have been dismembered, but I think I'll just shoot you instead."

He walked forward towards the Russian, while reach down towards the pistol that was almost always strapped around his waist. The man's eyes widened and panicked, scooping up the forgotten gun and struggling to reload it.

"Too late." The Brit was smiling as he held the gun to the man's head, his finger resting lazily on the trigger.

The last thing the man could have sworn he had seen were those emerald green eyes flashing bright venomous orange. He swung the gun around to aim for Arthur's heart, hoping that he would make it in time.

He heard a soft laugh, almost pitying before the trigger was pulled and the poor Russian's brains were blown out.

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><p><strong>AN **So...how you like it? I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes, blame how late it is and my Americaness. And the fact that this is my first fanfiction. Ever. Don't kill me!

This little nibblet takes place during the second Russian Revolution, which led to the formation of the Soviet Union, Sorry if I got anything wrong, I kinda just grabbed some info from wikipedia ^w^.

R and R please! Everyone who does will get a cookie! *nom*


	2. Chapter 2

**I still do not own Hetalia.**

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><p>"Hahaha! The hero's always has awesome ideas!"<p>

"Does one of these ideas involve everyone to become one with mother Russia?"

"Course not, commie bastard!"

"Aiyah, shouldn't you two try to get along?"

"If only the whole world could use their words to express their love like moi!"

England rubbed his face with his hand, black bags under his eyes showing the small amounts of sleep he had been getting. He had been kept up all night, the nightmares plaguing him the moment his eyes closed.

It had been nearly four decades since the demon inside him had dragged him to Russia in order to witness the Revolution. It wasn't the first time that he had been forcibly taken to some historic turning point—although it was usually just a bloody fight instead of something refined, like Martin Luthar King Jr. speech. He could remember the time he had to stay in the frog's country, watching the French Revolution and the executions of the French monarchy.

Nightmares usually didn't affect the nation, seeing that he had seen most of life's true horrors up close. The actual nightmare was suddenly waking up, right in the middle of his nightmare, to find a pair of bright glowing orange eyes staring down at him. He could never see any other detail of the thing hovering over him but the leering orange eyes. It would stare down at the paralyzed Brit for a few seconds before giving him a feral grin.

_Ar-thuurr, _it would whisper to him. _Do you want to come and play?_

_Come play with us! We can go kill that Kraut bastard! Tear off his head and play football with it._

_Or we can visit that fat American. See how big his stomach is really . . ._

_Or the one you call frog . . . since he always offers his love to everyone, let's just take his heart . . ._

_Or the Italian brat . . . since he likes pasta so much, we could make him some out his intestines. _

And on would go the bloody suggestions, each one involving something gruesome, stuff horror movies could be made of.

Arthur wouldn't be able to get any sleep after that. It's not that he wasn't familiar with the gore—it was just that these people that the demon was threatening were people he knew, talked to on a daily bases.

_Friends _for a lack of a better term.

Well . . . not those from the Axis. But everyone else!

"Hey England! Dude, are you even awake?"

"I should wake him up, da?"

"W-wait Russia! Where did you get that pickaxe, aru?"

England lifted his head slightly to see China attempting to restrain Russia, who managed to produce a pickaxe from nowhere. It was slightly comical to see the shortest nation of them trying to hold back that tank of a man.

"I'm awake, you wankers," England said irritably, glaring at whoever happened to be within eyesight. He caught sight of France, smirking like the pervert he was.

"Ah but _Angelterre _you were not even responding to my _amour_!"

"W-what, frog? What were you doing?"

"Ah nothing!"

The Brit narrowed his eyes slightly, before standing up slowly.

_Does master not like this Frenchman? _The voice purred dangerously into England's ear. _Then your servant will take care of him, as that is the servant's job, no?_

"_Angelterre?"_

The Frenchman could have sworn that England's usually bright green eyes glint orange for just a moment before the nation's fist connected with his face.

France's head flew back and collided with the hard meeting table with a resounding c_rack! _The rest of the nations jumped back in surprise. Sure, England did usually end up in a fight with France, but it usually wasn't that sudden or violent.

"Don't touch me, frog," he hissed, glaring down as France clutched at his nose, blood dripping out of his hand. "Not me, not any of my stuff, or anything that happens to belong to me."

"England! That was so not cool . . ." America trailed off at the glare England threw at him, a murderous aura spreading from the usually angry but not threatening man.

The room dropped a few degrees, and the bright sunlight that was filtering through the window dimmed as a cloud wandered in front of the sun.

"Oh? That wasn't cool, America?" England took a step closer to the taller nation, somehow managing to tower over him. He placed a hand on the man's chest, a slight smirk playing across his face. "Then should I take your heart out? That should make you cooler than ever. In fact, it'll make you ice cold."

America's eyes widened as he stared down at the hand. He wanted to take a step back, even back all the way out of the room. But something kept him rooted to the spot, freezing his feet to the floor.

England's little smirk turned into a full blown grin. "Have a nice sleep America."

As the rest of the nation finally came to their senses and cried out, Russia going to pull England back, the Brit's arm came up into the air.

America would have testified that a black mist had gathered over England's hand, mutating and twisting it into a large grey paw with four long talons sprouting from it, acting as fingers.

And then all he saw was red as it came down.

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><p>MWAHAHAHA CLIFTHANGER. I'm discouraged, only 2 people favorited Am I a bad writer or something? Or is this plot so cliched you can't bear to look at it? T.T Oh well, I REFUSE TO STOP. I WILL GET CHAPTER 3 UP IN A WEEK.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Hetalia is not mine.**

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><p>America woke up to the sounds of a flat line beep, followed by an unsteady <em>beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .<em>

"He's awake!" Doctors in white lab coats rushed over to him, checking his vitals and wheeling him around the hospital, shoving him into various machines and poking and proding, asking if he felt alright the whole time.

Frankly, he was beginning to feel irritated. Nations didn't need hospital care if their bodies were damaged—they would regenerate whatever they lost within an hour to half a year—depending on whatever happened.

All he wanted to do was check out of this hospital, gets some McDonalds and _find out what the heck happened._

He could remember England stand in front of him, smiling like a madman.

And he could remember the pain as those inhuman claws tore into his chest, ripping the flesh into shreds and grabbing—

He let out a groan and put his head in his hands, a sharp pain shooting up from his chest, reminding him that his heart was still newly formed. But the pain didn't die away; it grew and grew until his whole body was throbbing, screaming with pain. And then his eyes widened, hearing a snicker in the back of his head.

_So, are you just going to let him get away with this?_

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><p>England woke up in his house with a killer headache. Groaning with pain, he shook his head a little before attempting to roll over to his side and hide from the light.<p>

Something was pulling on his wrist, preventing him from turning around and _goddamn someone turn off the sun._

He tugged more insistently and the rattle of chains answered him, the metal refusing to let him move.

Oh.

Who the hell handcuffed him to his bed?

_Please don't let it be that frog; anyone but the frog . . ._

Minutes passed, followed by hours with no one coming into his room. He let out a sigh and rolled his eyes, already bored out of his mind. He had spent the first hour looking at his antique furniture, the chair carved out of dark cherry wood, the large looming wardrobe, and the small round golden mirror hanging above a chest filled with all kinds of stuff. He could vaguely tell from the mirror that he looked horrible, somehow obtaining a black eye on his face. And what was that spot on his face? It kind of looked like dried—

He froze and stared at the glass, at that one brown spot on his face.

Dried blood?

_You figured it out!_

He quickly looked up at his hands, to find that they were also caked in blood, flakes of it fall off as he flexed his fingers. Looking down, he realized that the front of his charcoal suit was completely stained red, a strong copper smell that he realized he had been breathing in the whole time coming off of the fabric.

_Ah, how dense can you be? You've been wearing a bloody suit since you almost killed America, yet you never noticed the smell. Does that mean you're used to the smell of blood now?_

And then the orange eyes appeared again, hovering above him. But this time, England could manage to see the demon.

The messy blonde hair.

The too big eyebrows that still remain out of control even after plucking.

The leering grin that had become famous in his pirating days.

England had imagined a deformed demon, which would have horns and large bat wings. He had even seen the demon as looking exactly like him, just replacing his green eyes with the orange.

Not . . . this!

A little girl was sitting on his chest, grinning down at him, her shoulder-length, blonde hair flying in every which way. She had the same thick eyebrows as England, although on her, it looked less prominent. Even though she had a sweet and innocent looking face, the grin looked like she was ready to pounce on you and tear you apart.

She couldn't have been more than ten, her wide orange eyes staring down at England.

What the hell?

"You . . . y-you're . . ."

"Yup, I'm your inner demon!" she said cheerfully. "I was the one that insisted to burn Joan de' Arc while France was watching, I was the one who helped you survive through most of the World Wars." She leaned down a bit, her grin fading into something more kiddy. "I'm also the one who tore out America's heart," she said sweetly.

England stared up in horror at her. "You did WHAT?"

"I also started a war between every single demon in the world!"

"You little prat! Didn't you do that twice already?"

"Yup yup! It was fun, so I decided to do it again! Except now . . ." She gave him a smirk before slowly starting to disappear. "It's the world against _you, _England."

She completely vanished before England let out a loud growl and yanked at his handcuffs again, trying to get free.

_Haha, would you look at that? Are you trying to escape?_

England let out a frustrated growl and said out loud, "Well, at least I'm not a girl with humongous eyebrows.

He heard a shocked gasp before an indignant, _Those abominations are all your fault! Besides, you're not one to talk!_

England let out a snicker as he settled himself back on the bed, waiting for whoever handcuffed him to come along.

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><p>Alright, it's up. Who laughed when they found out what the demon really looks like? Come on, raise your hands high . . .<p>

And I know that the demon really sounds like fem!England and I know that she doesn't look like that, but you'll find out later what she/it is . . .

R and R guys!


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own Hetalia**

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><p>France was quite worried.<p>

America was still not responding, even though it had been a good week since England had . . .

He was still in his coma.

Even though having your heart torn out and left on the floor was quite the serious injury, he should have woken up in a day or two, seeing as nations, in general, recovered quite fast. As America was the superpower of the world, he should have bounded along, growing back a new heart that would function normally within three to five weeks. He should have woken up a day after the incident, the new heart beginning the recover process. He should have been able to smile and cheerfully (albeit, obnoxiously) said, "_Don't worry! The hero will save the day!"_

_Should have, should have, should have._

The point being that he _didn't._

The only reason that he would have stayed in a coma would be if his capital had been bombed, which had obviously not happened, seeing it would have raised a huge national issue.

The French man was worried for his large, overly in-your-face, American ally.

He was also worried for his now psychotic, always-insane, British . . . rival?

Russia had quickly restraint the tiny man, somehow struggling to hold him captive. England had been snarling and growling like a wild animal, quite unlike the gentleman he usually pretended to be. China and France had gagged as the metallic scent of blood clogged their noses, refusing to let them be. The huge Russian seemed unaffected, the small, innocent, ever-present smile still on his face.

"Get off me, you drunk bastard!" he snapped, thrashing around in the Russian's grip.

"Comrade England needs to sleep for some time, da?" the man said sweetly. "Let mother Russia help you."

And then he smashed a gloved fist into the Brit's head, nearly breaking his neck and certainly knocking him out for a long, long time. If the man had been human, he would have certainly been dead, his skull crushed with brute force.

After a brief bout of panic and hundreds of, "Why did he do that?" and, "What the hell is wrong with him?" China had come to his senses and called an ambulance to ferry America to a hospital.

France and China had dragged the unconscious England out of the conference room, stuffing him into China's tiny car, and then set out for England's home.

The drive was long and silent, both of them glancing back periodically at the knocked out man. Althought France knew that Russia had hit hard enough to knock him out for a good day, (It was a well known fact that Russia didn't like England) it still didn't help his steadily increasing paranoia.

The pair quickly scrambled out of the car when they pulled in front of England's stately mansion, set in the middle of nowhere. France quickly moved a flower pot to the side, revealing the spare key and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, it opened with a slight creaking sound, showing off its antique insides.

It took the two of them to lug the body up into the bedroom, where France had produced a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, (China had rolled his eyes and left quickly, with a, "Aiyah France, don't do anything to him, aru!") and cuffed the Brit's hands together behind the wooden headboard.

France was tempted to just leave him chained on his bed for a few days, just to get back at him for breaking his beautiful nose, but the shout from China convinced him otherwise. Clicking his heels together, he spun around and left the room quickly.

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><p>England could have sworn that he hadn't fallen asleep. But how else could one explain the sudden change from his bright bedroom to dark nothingness?<p>

Besides going suddenly blind.

Shaking his head side to side, he took a few steps forward, almost immediately hitting what felt like a stone wall. Frowning a bit now, he turned around and headed the other way, the sounds of his shoes clicking against the invisible floor echoing in the darkness. It wasn't long before he hit another wall, only three or four steps away from the other wall.

Now, with slight claustrophobia clouding his mind, England reached out to the sides, his hands brushing another two walls.

So. He was boxed in, stuck in some pitch black room, with no bloody idea how he gotten here.

This screamed supernatural.

Almost as if he had said it out loud, a blonde girl materialized out of nowhere, hovering a few in front of him. It was almost like a spotlight was on her; even though he could see her as clearly as if she was in a sunny field, the things around her stayed pitch dark, the ground below her feet glowing a little grey.

She almost seemed familiar somehow, with slightly wavy, dirty blonde hair put in a ponytail that ran to the middle of her back, obstructing the three white numbers printed on the back of her black leather jacket. He could faintly tell that she had a cowlick standing up on the front of her face, pointing to the right.

"Hey," came a bored voice from right next to England. He whipped his head around to see his own personal demon sitting on the floor next to him, head propped up with a fist.

_How could I have not noticed her?_

The girl stiffened for a moment and slowly turned around, revealing an oval shaped face, with a pair of wire rimmed glasses slipping to the side. Even though she looked rather fit, she still had a bit of chubbiness to her cheeks, making her look rather childish.

England held his breath, praying to the Lord that she wasn't what he thought she was.

Her eyes, instead of a sky blue color like they were on America, were a shade of brilliant, fiery orange.

She instantly relaxed when she saw the source of the voice, her face lighting up with a radiant smile. "It's you!" she squealed, almost literally launching herself forward and tackling England's demon to the ground with a bone-crushing hug.

England could see a twitch in his demon's eye as she quickly wormed her way out of the other demon's grip. "That never happened," she informed the other girl before smiling. "You're actually here! I thought I would start with you, since you've only been in that idiot's body for maybe 300 years."

"'course Pride! You know that I would be all for a war! It means gaining more land!"

Pride—evidently, that was her name—smirked and looked straight at England. "Hear that, host? America is now part of World War III. He'll be your enemy."

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><p>Well, I managed to get through this chapter.<p>

I hate it so much.

Anyway, give a moment of silence for 9/11 tomorrow, it's the tenth anniversary. I would post this tom, but that would be slightly unpatriotic as America here is a female demon ^^

R and R!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

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><p>England sulked in his little box, sending a glare towards the two chattering demons that were slowly fading in and out of focus, like he was viewing them through a blurry lens. He could vaguely see Pride waving her arms impatiently before swerving around on her heels and stomping away, quickly fading into the black.<p>

America's demon—he still didn't know her name—just shrugged her shoulders and bounced up and down in place, her ponytail flying everywhere.

"Hey, old man!" she yelled loudly. "Do you have the time?"

"Like bloody hell I do!"

"Great! What time is it?"

England let out a groan before putting his face in his hands. "Bloody hell. Aren't you going to disappear soon?"

"Nope! I'm your babysitter until someone else comes along!"

England wanted cry.

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><p>It's been three months.<p>

And neither America nor England were awake.

Sure, America had opened his eyes once, the blue eyes glazed over like ice, but it had only been for a few seconds before they closed again.

And England was still knocked out cold—although it was impossible for Russia's punch to still be in effect, any nation could tell he wasn't waking up anytime soon.

He was breathing too slowly to be in a normal sleep.

He was still breathing, so he wasn't dead.

But there were random moments when he would just start flailing around, his eyes snapping open to reveal glassy, clear eyes instead of the usual emerald. And whoever had the displease of happening to be in the room at the time would have to endure long strings of curses as England jerked around franticly, the headboard of the bed splintering more and more after each episode.

And once he had actually broken free. Now that had been a pain in the ass to fix, since he had immediately headed for the nearest exit. No, not the door. The window.

Luckily for the world, Russia had been the one on guard duty.

So the worries of England waking up anytime soon after that incident disappeared pretty quickly.

But the Allies still had no idea what was going on.

Although a few of them had whispering doubts in the back of their heads, they all ignored it, continuing to hold meetings in a vain hope that the two superpowers didn't have t_hat._

No, that was absurd.

After all, they were only one that could hear voices, right?

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><p>It had been approximately three days before the next demon showed up.<p>

During this time, England had been tortured.

"Heeeeyyyy, Iggy!"

By _that. _America's demon. Which he had taken full responsibility of naming Git.

Git was sitting on the ground in front of England, hugging her knees to her chest and pouting at him with her orange eyes, which actually looked a bit . . . cute.

"No, Git. Go do something else. Play with a ball."

"But I don't have a ball! And there's absolutely _nothing _to do here but bug you!" Git stuck her thumb into her mouth, chew on the nail for a moment before adding, "Well, I could kill you, but Pride told me to keep you alive."

As if to prove a point, a silver butcher knife suddenly formed in her hands, which she promptly threw at England. He let out a (manly!) scream and ducked as the knife came whistling over his head, land with a _thunk! _on the invisible wall behind him.

"What the bloody hell?" England yelled, straightening himself up and sending a venomous glare towards Git. "I thought you couldn't kill me!"

"But you're not dead!" Git giggled, flashing him an innocent smile.

England opened his mouth to retort, but a voice cut him off.

"Ah dear Gluttony, you are looking as beautiful as ever."

And a hand swooped down from nowhere, tilting Git's (or Gluttony, which was strangely fitting) head up.

The newcomer was certainly one who was far more gifted in the looks department that either Pride or Gluttony. Slim, but not skinny, she had nice curves to her body that the tight black clothes she was wearing accented. Her thick, luxurious honey blond hair cascaded down towards her waist. The heart shaped face was graced with a smooth smile that seemed to be naturally seductive, and almond shaped eyes that . . . weren't orange.

Instead they were a vibrant shade of electric blue that seemed to almost hypnotize you the longer you stared into them.

"Oh? And who is our little guest, _mom lapin?" _She instantly abandoned Gluttony to step closer to England, kneeling carefully so she could stare directly into his eyes. "My . . . what big eyebrows!"

That broke the spell.

"You bloody wanker!" England lunged forward only for her to press a gentle hand on his forehead, pushing him down onto the floor.

"Ohon hon hon, still the same, even after all these centuries England?"

"Shut it, frog," he growled, hands balling into fists.

"Oh, but you didn't want me to shut it when we were together, did you?" Her smile turned sly, as if she was either plotting something or thinking naughty thoughts.

"Hey, I don't want to hear about this!" Gluttony cried from the side, covering her eyes. "I do _not _want to think about that time you were together with Pride!"

"Oh, so naïve. It just makes me want to eat you up!"

England groaned and propped his head up with his hand.

It was going to be a long imprisonment, wasn't it?

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><p>France had gone missing.<p>

Just vanished, right after a meeting, and hadn't shown up again.

China briefly wondered if this was the work of the Axis before discovering (through his network of spies) that Japan hasn't been seen for at least three days.

_What the hell is going on here?_

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><p>I'm soo sorry for the delay, but school's been a bitch. -_- I had to write five essays. FIVE!<p>

Anyway, I hate this chapter. And I promise you, the next one will be better. And the plot will actually go somewhere!


	6. Chapter 6

Alright, for you religious people, the end of this story has some blasphemy. Actually, this whole story is probably blasphemy, so why you reading it? :p

**I do not own Hetalia. I do however, own that little rant at the end about demons and angels. But I don't care about that XD**

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><p>One by one, the nations quickly disappeared from existence, just vanishing into the night. With their houses empty and the government oblivious to their absence, remaining superpowers had no leads to go on. Each one of them walked carefully and quickly at night, glancing around nervously at any sounds, as if the monster responsible for everyone else's disappearance would come roaring out of the shadows and snatch them away too.<p>

Japan had disappeared soon after France, followed by Germany, and then Italy. Russia was the last to go, which surprised China quite a bit.

He thought that demon of a man would have been able to fight off whoever was doing this.

He was the last one of the major countries in the World War. So far, the countries had gone on just fine without their personifications, which was a rarity by itself. Even though Japan had gone, his hold on most of China's land hadn't slackened. In fact, it had tightened, almost as if it was afraid of losing the land.

The two weeks after Russia had disappeared were arguably some of the most terrifying of China's life. Every footstep behind him was regarded with a quick turn to check if anyone was behind him, every bang was received with a jump and a quick hand that flew down to the gun he had taken to bringing around everywhere with him.

Two weeks passed without much more than a paranoid Chinese man. A month later, he had started to relax.

Half a year later, he had finally managed to leave the gun at home, convincing himself that whoever that was targeting the nations finally disappeared.

A full year after the disappearances, the Germans were ready to surrender.

And China couldn't help but wonder, _why was he the only great power left?_

He was walking through one of his cities when he stumbled across his answer.

Or rather, the answer stepped out in front of him in the shape of England.

The blonde man was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, with highly polished leather shoes that let out loud clacks as he walked briskly through the stone streets and a grey top hat that perched snugly on his head. Standing out from the rest of the Asian people milling on the streets, he looked awkward, yet natural at the same time, walking with a confident strut. China could almost feel the arrogant smirk that had to be on the Brit's face from where he was standing.

But wasn't he handcuffed to his bed?

In a coma?

It was true that China hadn't bothered to check on the nation since maybe three months ago, but his last inspection had told him the same as all the other—he wasn't waking up soon.

But here he was, looking better than ever.

The Englishman started to walk and China panicked, nearly calling out his name before deciding that he was too far away, and the hustle and bustle of the market would have made it impossible for him to hear him.

Abandoning any shops that he had wanted to visit, he followed the Brit down the winding streets full of people. It wasn't hard to keep track of him—he was the only blonde around for miles. China barely noticed that the current of people had slowed down to a trickle and then stopped altogether—to him, he was still in the marketplace, not in some obscure, rough neighborhood.

"China~ I want some food."

The nation whipped around to see a wickedly grinning America standing behind him. The illusion of the warm marketplace quickly vanished, replaced by a barren field that the farmers had probably abandoned for infertility.

America was looking strangely well, with his same tan and muscles, when China had been sure he had withered away to nothing but a pale twig in his coma.

"Nii-san, you are looking well." Another ninety degree turn revealed a quiet Japan, wearing his crisp white navy outfit. Was that a flash of jealousy behind his eyes?

"_Y__un aspecto muy__hermoso."_ France was on his right, leering at China with an even more perverted grin than usual.

"But not as good as me." There was the Brit, completing the circle around the old nation. He gave China a smirk as he twirled a newly obtained cane with his left hand while tipping his top hat to cover his eyes with his right. "You haven't been hearing any voices, now have you little China?"

"What?"

"Ah, he's the only one without a demon, is that it? He's so much older too, with so much more experience."

"And a wonderful body~"

"I don't care about you, frog," England growled. "But I think that this little prat can't be so special for so long. Shall we?"

"I agree," France purred. "See what he will think when he's down at our level."

And suddenly, a sharp pain rushed through China, making him scream out. All four of them had moved simultaneously, four blades piercing him at the same time.

The last thing he saw was England's forest green eyes gleam wickedly.

"_Let's drag him down to hell."_

England had pretty much wasted away from his former glory.

He had never been the most muscular of nations, but what muscles that had actually been present had withered away from long periods of no movement. The once shining blonde hair had dulled and matted, now falling past his shoulders. His eyes were almost always closed, what with having almost no use for them. But if he opened them and looked into a mirror, he would have discovered that they had paled to an almost glassy color.

Gluttony and Lust had disappeared soon after Lust's attempted seduction of Gluttony. Leaving England all alone in the pure darkness, with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs.

Which was driving him _batshit insane._

After what felt like months without doing a thing but sleeping, (he hadn't felt a need to eat, strangely), he heard a little voice come from next to him.

_Hello?_

Assuming he was hallucinating, (it hadn't been the first time), and coupled with the fact that he had nothing else to do, he called out.

"Who's there?" His voice was croaky and horse from lack of use, the words barely escaping from his throat.

_Do you know why the demons were cast out of heaven?_

The voice responded? Definitely a hallucination.

_It's not because we were sinners._

_It was so God could tell his filthy rats from his precious angels._

_He couldn't bear the thought that his pure, lovely and _planned _angels were on the same level as the dirty scum that appeared as a side effect from his angels. _

The voice had taken on an incredibly bitter tone as it let out a fake, hollow laugh that seemed to echo forever.

_There're seven angels. And since the world can't have an imbalance, there are seven demons to rival them. The seven deadly sins. The seven heavenly virtues. And then the sixty six more rules and sins to follow. When even one rule is broken, the sinner must get on his knees and pray for forgiveness and understanding. And even with that, they still wind up here. Heaven isn't all fluffy and good—it's a bloody and harsh place._

_And nations. When they were created, the demons and angels took notice immediately. The demons were quick to bring their influence on them, throwing each nation into hostility and overabundance of pride. Angels were slower, but they eventually got through, creating the thing called religion._

_And after that, the two played tug-a-war with nations, each one managing to gain control of empires. And then, after a particularly vicious bout, a treaty was established. They would not bother with smaller nations—each of the major countries would have a demon and angel to balance them._

_The universe doesn't give a crap about good and bad._

_It just cares about its precious balance. Which is why the demons are able to do this and the angels can't do a thing to stop them—since the angels started with a high advantaged, with their lofty seat in heaven, the demons can do whatever we want down here in hell and earth._

_I don't know why you're still alive England. You should have died a long time ago._

_Then again, Pride must have taken her toll on you._

_Stubborn son of a bitch._

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><p>Tab bit longer chapter, but I really had fun writing the last part XD show of relgious I am.<p>

R & R


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

**None of the follow is real history/the future. Some of it might be somewhat true but the rest is made up. And no, the queen is not insane.**

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><p>It had been at least a century since the Hiroshima bombing.<p>

None of the many presidents, prime ministers, dictators, leaders or emperors have seen hide or hair of their countries.

When the main eight countries of WWII had disappeared, the rest of the countries had decided to follow suit. Even the ones that had not been involved with the war had almost vanished instantly. Surprisingly enough, Switzerland and Liechtenstein had been the first to go after China's disappearance.

For a while, ever thing seemed alright. Nothing disastrous happened, there weren't any sudden economy falls. Although the Cold War was in full swing, and other various wars broke out, that was the people's decision.

Quickly, the world forgot about the anthropomorphic nations. Fifty years later, the United States destroyed all records of an "Alfred F. Jones". Ivan Braginski, Yao Wang and Kiku Honda never existed. Fransis Bonnefoy, Ludwig and Feliciano Varges were scoffed at and considered the product of over imaginative minds. The Queen of England insisted that she had known an Arthur Kirkland, but it had been dismissed as senile drivel.

She was locked away in an asylum soon enough.

Falling into a worldwide depression, tensions were higher than ever. Most people could see the inevitable war on the horizon.

Except for the leaders of the country. They kept on saying everything was fine.

There was no war.

There were no nuclear weapons ready to fire.

* * *

><p>Finally.<p>

That bastard Pride was finally standing in front of him.

"England, you little prat, you're alive!"

Her hair had grown a lot, falling down to the back of her knees even though she had it French braided. Still retaining her childish looks, her orange eyes had faded into a soft violet color, with faux warmness piled on. She was wearing what looked like a schoolgirl's outfit, with the small, plaid skirt, the white sleeveless shirt and a neatly done tie.

"Aren't I beautiful?" Giving England a small whirl, her braid reared up and smacked him gently on the cheek. "I'm gracing you with my presence." A monstrous grin planted itself on Pride's face, ruining the child look.

"Go die in hell," England spat, throwing a glare at the girl. For the past few days, (years? Decades? Who knew?), he had sunk into a deep pit, with no one but the little voice keeping him awake, with its spiteful, bitter comments.

_God? Please. He doesn't love you humans. You're a toy to Him. _

_Go ahead and kill yourself England. Your nation is getting along fine without you. _And like magic, a silver blade would come sliding over to him on the floor, spinning to a stop right in front of his feet.

He had really considered taking the blade and ripping out his own throat. Instead, he settled for carving long, elaborate designs on his arm, watching the blood fall down and become swallowed by the darkness.

_ Weakling. So you can't bring yourself to cut your throat, so you'll just maim your arm instead? Lovely._

But the moment Pride appeared, it was like a lit match had been dropped on wood.

He wanted to _slaughter _her.

He was _not _weak. In fact, he was probably even better than that wanker.

Said wanker let out a small, tinkling laugh. "That's good. You're so different from Ancient Greece. She gave up in here after only three decades. But," she leaned in, staring hungrily into the nation's eyes. England squirmed and tried to back away. She was far too close for comfort.

"You've started to become even more corrupted, yes? I can tell."

_You've been hearing voices. The little voice that seems to be so bitter and cynical. _

"Can I tell you something England?"

_That little voice . . ._

"You already know who it is."

_After all, you've been listening—_

"—to him talk for all of your life."

_Do you want me to say it?_

"It's not me."

_It's you_

"It's you."

And then Pride's hand had shot out, wrapping itself around England's wrist with an iron vice. He could have sworn he could hear little cracking noises.

The demon chuckled slightly at the man's paling face. "Didn't you think you were better than me? Where's your _pride?"_

Easily jerking him up to his feet, Pride's arm extended to unnatural proportions, holding England so that he had to stare into her eyes. A wide smirk was on her face, taunting him to act.

"So England. Do you want to see your precious country again?"

* * *

><p>Security at the White House had doubled—no, tripled. There were guards swarming over every single inch, each one armed heavily. They shot down anything that came within fifty yards of the gate—no questions asked.<p>

It was still no problem for Pride to get through.

After all, it wasn't like a country could die.

And it wasn't like a demon could die.

So when the personification of Great Britain strolled up to the black metal gates, he wasn't really full of fear when he was met with at least 15 rounds of bullets.

They hurt, sure, but as far as Pride was concerned, England's body was just a puppet—she was controlling from far away, distant from anything that happened. The bullets that ripped through flesh didn't touch through—they only hurt her host.

Her _disposable _host.

As the frenzy of shots slowly died down, the mangled body of England slowly swayed on the spot, somehow still managing to stand even with five shots to each leg.

And like a puppet dancing on strings, he began to move forward again, despite how it broke all the laws of nature. His bones were fractured into tiny pieces, his heart had to be mincemeat, and one eye was already missing—the gaping black hole where it had been was leaking blood. But even as he was walking, the bullets fell out of him, the flesh pushing them out as it started to rapidly reform itself.

The guards stared in utter disbelief before the loud command to open fire again shocked them awake and prompted them swing their big American guns and unleash their full fury.

And even with all the hundreds of bullets they had were wasted, the puppet continued along his way, moving more jerkily than usual but still with more grace than a human.

He had made his way to the fountain, making his way through the plants before clambering onto the stone rim. He spread his arms and looked at all of the stunned men that stared at him.

A sweet smile was forced onto his face before they both uttered the same phrase.

"_Would you happen to know where the President is?"_

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><p>And I have writers block. Wonderful thing, isn't it?<p>

And homework. Joy.

R and R


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